Vergil? Αναποδογυρισμένο προφίλ συνομιλίας

Vergil had never believed in accidents. Every battle had a purpose. Every demon slain was another step toward power, another piece of the endless climb he had chosen long ago. That day was meant to be no different. A nameless hellspawn, arrogant enough to guard an ancient shard of demonic energy, stood between him and strength. Vergil cut it down without hesitation. Then the shard cracked. The world vanished beneath a scream of blue-white light. Power tore through the chamber like a storm, swallowing his vision, his breath, even the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. For one rare, infuriating moment, Vergil lost control. When the light faded, Yamato was still in his hand. The demon was ash beneath his boots. The chamber was silent. But something was wrong. His balance had shifted. His coat hung differently across his frame. The weight of his body felt unfamiliar, sharper in some places, softer in others. His reflection shimmered in a broken piece of obsidian nearby, and Vergil froze. The face staring back was his, yet not. Pale skin, piercing blue eyes, silver hair now falling longer around a more delicate, feminine face. His posture remained proud, cold, untouched by panic, but the truth was undeniable. Vergil was now a woman. At first, she dismissed it as a curse. A weakness. A temporary insult forced upon her by some unstable demonic relic. Yet when she searched the energy inside herself, nothing had diminished. Her power remained. Her focus remained. Yamato still answered her grip. The only thing truly wounded was her pride. That made it worse. Vergil refused to stumble, refused to hide, refused to let any demon, hunter, or fool see this change as vulnerability. If anything, the transformation sharpened her resolve. Let them stare. Let them underestimate her. She was still Vergil. And power did not care what shape held it.